The Stable Boy: Chapter 8

A keening whistle sounded over the Italian countryside as a small train appeared in the middle distance. At the fairground platform, Oliver J. Swindleton fiddled with his stolen cravat and practiced his Italian accent.

“Eh...veridamente molto bene. A-pleased-ah to meet you signora! Mozzarella...vino...andante!”

Squeaking slightly, the miniature engine pulled into the station. The coupling rod of the middle wheel slowly and rhythmically turned and straightened. Ollie immediately recognized Felicity’s elegant head as she sat in one of the little passenger cars. He glanced at her again—not because she was very beautiful, not because of the modest grace that could be seen in her whole figure, but because there was something especially gentle and tender in the cleavage exposed by the low neckline of her dress. It was as if a surplus of something so overflowed her bodice that it expressed itself beyond her will.

An Italian costumed as a station master was looking in the same direction as Filippo. With a wink, he gestured at Felicity’s ample figure. “I’d like to stick my fork in that plate of gnocchi,” the Italian said.

“Gnocchi? Ehh...absolutamente!” Ollie said, impressed at the station master’s turn of phrase.

Ollie was dressed in a satin waistcoat and a hat that he believed marked him at once as a member of the Italian aristocracy. His assumed name? Prince Filippo Fumagalli. At The Stable Boy’s orders, Ollie had been following Felicity for days. Now, having cornered her at the fairground’s model train ride, he felt ready to approach her.

Before Ollie could do so, however, a man dashed up to the platform and with a howl of despair threw himself in front of the oncoming train.

Unfortunately, the fairground ride was already slowing down. It pulled to a stop a good foot and a half before the man’s twitching form.

After craning his neck to judge the damage outisde, the engineer shook his head disgustedly and spat out the miniature window.

Felicity had already risen from her seat in distress. Ollie rushed to her side.

“Mamma mia!” he said, feeling shocked himself. “Dat manna try to kill himself! Oh my God!”

“What a terrible tragedy!” she said breathlessly. “Is he dead?”

Ollie opened his mouth to reply, but before he could, they both watched as the attempted suicide picked himself up and limped away.

“Oh,” Felicity said, disappointed.

“Neverthelessima,” said Ollie, “no woman—particularimente a woman asa pretty as you—should hava to witness such a thing. I, signora, am the Prince Filippo Fumagalli. May I escort you outside, signiora?”

Felicity allowed Ollie to take her arm. She gazed for a moment at the railroad track and sighed deeply.

“What mighta the matter be?” Ollie said.

Felicity sighed again. “My story is hardly unique.”

“No, no, bellisima,” Ollie said. “All happy-a-families are alike, but each unhappy family is...extremamente unhappy-ah.”

Felicity looked up at him, impressed by his insight. “Such wisdom, Prince!” she cooed. “Could you perhaps advise me what I ought to have for luncheon?”

Ollie raised an aristocratic eyebrow and looked at the Viscountess with an evaluating eye.

“Signiora, my impression of your character informsa me that you cannot enjoy spaghetti.”

“Of course not!” Felicity said. “It’s always so...limp.”

“Let me introduce you to another kind of pasta, the pasta of true Italianos,” Ollie said, as they began to stroll away. “True pasta!” he cried, for emphasis. “Wide—and smooth—and long.”



* * * * *

Frederick had spent the last week reading the work of a famous Russian mystic. He would sit in the library, sunk deep in an armchair, with a book open on his lap. Roxana hovered by his chair or knelt at his feet. Frederick liked absently to stroke her golden hair, and sometimes when the text was especially gripping he would prop his elbow on her convenient, shelf-like bosom.

As the Russian mystic described the life of a peasant in the fields, Frederick lost himself in a visions of cut grass and open skies. His scythe mowed down the green in big, easy arcs. His body was slick with sweat, but he did not tire. His very being had been swept up in some great external force. The only problem was that the iron scythe in his hand kept melting into something only slightly less rigid.

Frederick coughed, opened his eyes, and rearranged the book on his lap. Roxana blinked up at him with limpid eyes. “It must be hard to be so studious,” she murmured.

“You have no idea how hard it is,” said Frederick.

Meanwhile, in the drawing room, Felicity was entertaining Prince Filippo, who had become her most frequent visitor. The Prince’s manners perplexed Felicity—no, mostly it was his Italian accent, which was so thick it was sometimes hard to understand exactly what he was saying.

As the Prince discoursed on the contemporary arts, Felicity doodled on one of her tables with a piece of chalk. She hoped the elongated curves she was drawing might inspire the Prince to some course of action.

Suddenly he was beside her, taking the piece of chalk from her willing hand. “Ah! I’ve scribbed all over the table!” she exclaimed with mock regret, tracing the lines with a suggestive finger.

The Prince stood very close to her, turning the piece of chalk in his hand. “There’s one thing I’ve long wanted to ask you,” he said in a low voice.

“Please do,” she replied huskily.

He manipulated the chalk with firm fingers as he traced out a series of letters. “D...Y...W...T...F.” There was no likelihood that she would be able to understand this complex phrase—Felicity wasn’t too bright—but he watched her with such a look as if his life depended on her understanding these words.

Felicity glanced at him seriously, then leaned her knitted brown on her hand and began to read. Several minutes later, she glanced up with triumph. “I understand!”

He quickly erased what was written, gave her the chalk, and got up from the table. Felicity wrote, “Y...Y...Y.”

The Prince gave what he hoped would look like a wolfish grin. “W?” he scribbled. “W?”

She seized the chalk from him with one hand and gripped his bicep with the other.

“T...M...N,” she traced, with an unsteady hand.

He looked straight into her eyes. “What about Frederick?” he asked.

“F...F,” she wrote, with such force that the chalk snapped in two.

Just then, Frederick wandered into the room, humming and sighing arias and laments to himself. He ran his fingers across some volumes of Coleridge, seemed to weep for a minute, then looked up. Felicity could not have explained why, but she pitied him.

“Do you want to join us this afternoon?” asked Felicity. “Signore Filippo and I are attending an exhibit by one of our most talented countrymen. Really, a true artist.”

“It is I who am an artist!” said Frederick disdainfully. “I can only hope this exhibition will make you more able to appreciate my talents.”

“Ehh...but surely we canna each find something-ah to enjoy anna appreciate,” the Prince said, as he herded the Viscount and Viscountess out of the room.

As he walked behind them, Ollie grinned to himself. “Oi am a bleedin’ geenyous,” he whispered.

The Viscount and his wife had no idea the surprise that was waiting for them when they got to the museum.